


For Want of a Wildflower

by DyraDoodles



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character tags updated as fic progresses, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27784966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DyraDoodles/pseuds/DyraDoodles
Summary: After the disaster of Geralt's djinn wishes, you'd think he'd learn not think of any wishes anywhere near someone who could grant them. Unfortunately, Geralt has many wishes in the wake of the dragon hunt, and he runs into a witch who seems to know a way to grant them all at once.The world in which Geralt wakes after that encounter is very, very wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 162





	1. Better Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my hand at a witcher!Jaskier fic because I am in the mood for some ANGST. Jask himself will mostly be in flashbacks until ~ch.3 I think. This fic will be drawing pretty heavily from Witcher 3 stuff.
> 
> I have no update schedule, as quarantine is frying my brain, so I'm posting this mostly in the hopes that people other than myself will enjoy the idea. Ty for reading!

It had been months since the mountain, and the dragon hunt. Since Geralt told Jaskier to leave and, for once, the bard did.

Geralt was not going to admit he was lonely, because he wasn’t.

How could he be lonely? He had blessed silence all the time. Peace, at last. No bard chattering incessantly in his ear, or complaining about his feet aching and asking to slow down. No bard to drag him off course for some festival, or a competition, and _certainly_ no getting invited to any courts, where Geralt’s life would get flipped on its end for the hundredth time since he’d met Jaskier in Posada.

Geralt didn’t even know if Jaskier was still performing anymore. He figured the bard must be, as Jaskier had to earn his own coin, always had, but usually Geralt would hear whispers of him in the towns he’d pass through. Phantoms of Jaskier’s presence. Some sign the bard had been there, his own path just a step or two away from the witcher’s.

 _That’s Geralt of Rivia, isn’t it?_ the people would wonder, voices hushed, thinking Geralt couldn’t hear them. _The one Jaskier the bard sang of, from the ballads_.

Sang. Past-tense.

Perhaps Jaskier had stopped singing of his White Wolf, having been cast away by his muse. Geralt felt a deep pit in his stomach, not for the first time. It felt distressingly like guilt.

Roach snorted as she walked, head shaking.

“We’re all better off,” Geralt told her, encouraging Roach into more of a trot now that they had no one to walk for. “C’mon. Giddy up.”

Roach huffed, but complied, speeding their progress toward a small, worn-down hut in the woods.

Geralt eyed the structure warily as they approached, listening intently for anything out of the ordinary. The villagers of the nearby town were convinced the woman who lived here was a witch. Girls from the village went missing. Strange sounds were heard at night; ones that sounded like monster growls, not wolves. Travelers entered her hut and never exited.

Odd, to say the least.

Geralt dismounted Roach several yards off. His horse knew when to run if something went awry. For now, Roach seemed at ease, contenting herself with munching the clover by the little pond out front. Geralt left her to her snack, walking toward the hut.

His medallion began to hum against his chest, the presence and scent of magic heavy in the air.

He took a breath, hoping he could get the matter investigated without much grief. The woman was likely a mage or something. Maybe a healer with a few sparks of magic, acting the part of a haggard old witch to keep local idiots from bothering her.

At any rate, it would be nice to wrap the contract up with nothing more than a conversation about moving somewhere less prejudiced.

Geralt knocked on the door with his fist. Then, he waited.

The smell of ozone grew stronger, and then nearly flooded his senses as the door opened.

An old crone stood before him, back bent with age and leaning on a wooden staff. She peered up at him through a curtain of messy gray hair. An approving smile was on her lips as she caught sight of the wolf medallion on Geralt’s chest. “A witcher,” she observed. “School of the Wolf, is it? You look like you must be Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt had long since stopped being surprised when people recognized him. _Toss a Coin_ was played in damn near every pub these days, whether Jaskier was the one singing it or not. “Alderman sent me,” Geralt said by way of explanation.

“Did he now?” the old woman laughed, revealing several missing teeth. “Gotten scared of the old witch by the water again, has he?”

“This has happened before,” Geralt concluded, brows furrowing.

“Oh, many times,” she huffed, turning away from the door and walking inside, seemingly unconcerned if Geralt followed or not as she kept speaking. “Any time a girl goes missing before she’s meant to marry some abusive fuckwit or other. The groom’s families always like to blame me rather than take any responsibility for the girls running off.”

“There were other things the villagers mentioned,” Geralt elaborated, stepping inside. The hut was homely, with a pot of stew bubbling in the fireplace, and dried herbs of all kinds hanging along the walls. The air almost shimmered with a thick blanket of magic. He grimaced. “Some heard noises they believe to be from monsters.”

“There’s a fiend nearby,” the old woman acknowledged. “Old bugger. Keeps getting into my garden and making a nuisance of itself. Sometimes it gets past my wards and eats the village’s livestock.”

Geralt didn’t like the sound of that. “A fiend’s not some garden pest. Never thought to hire a witcher yourself?” he questioned.

The old woman laughed again, gesturing to her meager possessions. “I’ve no money for a witcher. I only trade in favors.”

Geralt was liking this conversation less and less as the woman went on. _Favors_ , from a supposed witch, with an obvious glamor on her hut. “These favors ever lead to travellers going missing?” he asked.

“Not sure I like what you’re implying,” she smiled, a flash of _knowing_ in her eyes as they locked with Geralt’s. “There are those who seek my talents. I give them what they want, and send them on their way.”

“And they’re never seen again,” Geralt added. “Townsfolk don’t like it, and there’s a fiend besides.”

“You could take care of the fiend, I’m sure. That’ll shut up some of their griping,” the old woman said cheerily. “My leaving is quite another story, but perhaps we could bargain; I have always wondered what sort of things a witcher could want, if you’re capable of wanting.”

Geralt scowled in answer.

The old woman studied his face for a time as her pale eyes gazed intently into Geralt’s. “Ah, although, you’re not the type to voice your true desires, are you?”

“I don’t want anything from you apart from answers,” Geralt said firmly, “and your word that you’ll leave the area—give the people peace of mind, so I can collect my payment and be on my way.”

“Kill the fiend in the forest first,” she told him, settling herself into a rocking chair and draping her threadbare shawl over her arms. “I’ll not make deals until you can prove you’re capable of that much.”

Geralt huffed a breath of air through his nose, frustrated at the woman’s total lack of concern. The townsfolk had clearly wanted a witcher to intimidate her, and he was getting absolutely nowhere. The whole contract was probably a waste of time.

“Go on,” she urged, waving him away as if he were an unruly child, rather than a witcher come to confront her. “Go slay the monster, White Wolf. You’ll get your pay from the alderman, if you do.”

Seeing that this was as good an answer as he was going to get, Geralt grit his teeth. She had a point. Killing the fiend would at least solve _a_ problem, if not _the_ problem the townsfolk had with the witch. “Where is the fiend?”

“The woods, out back,” she told him. “Came on the property yesterday and made a big ruckus. You’ll likely find the tracks ‘round my moleyarrow—blasted creature stomped all over them.”

Geralt exited the hut, stalking his way out to the garden in the back. Sure enough, the area was devastated, with ripped earth and claw marks strewn about the yard. If anything, he supposed he should be grateful this hunt would be quick. Then he could make sure the woman kept to her word, collect his pay, and maybe snag a room at the inn. Get some sleep in a real bed, tonight.

Squatting for a closer look at the prints leading to and from the garden, Geralt searched for the indications of a fiend. The woman might know her monsters, or she could be using the term as a catch-all. He’d have to verify, first. Make damn sure he knew what he would be fighting.

“Clawed toes,” he noted, spying the deeper grooves in the earth, ignoring the smaller, human footprints that must belong to the witch. “Beast’s a quadruped. At least four meters high.” When the marks made it too close to the house, they stopped abruptly, as though hitting a wall. Geralt grimaced, medallion still humming gently around his neck. There was a barrier here, probably to ward off the beast, but it seemed the witch had deigned to allow Geralt through.

With a grunt, Geralt followed the large tracks from the garden, bypassing a broken fence. A tuft of dark brown fur had been caught on a splintered post. He took the fur in hand, sniffing it. Then he grimaced, the earthy musk positively pungent to his enhanced senses. “ _Definitely_ a fiend,” he confirmed.

The fiend’s tracks continued, the beast having lumbered back toward the woods. Something had to have provoked the creature—fiends weren’t known to seek out humans. Though, if the woman was truly a witch, or a mage of some sort like Geralt figured, chances were high she’d pissed it off somehow.

And now, it was his turn to piss it off. Wonderful.

Geralt made his way back to Roach, tying her reins to a sturdy branch before rummaging through his packs for potions and sword oil. At least he knew well in advance what he was hunting, for once. Infinitely easier to make preparations, though it was usually all the more reason for Jaskier to insist he should come along on the hunt.

Geralt let out a short, irritated huff as he braced himself for the longtime argument, parting his lips to tell Jaskier to stay put.

Only to remember Jaskier wasn’t here.

Geralt’s jaw clenched shut again. Months apart, and he was still acting like the bard was with him. As if Geralt hadn’t sent Jaskier away himself.

As if there was no gnawing worry that Jaskier really did leave for good, this time.

Geralt shook his head, stashing two potions in a pouch at his waist, and then moving onto dousing a small cloth with relict oil. It should be plenty for a standard fiend. Overkill, even.

Jaskier would’ve argued with him for hours to come along.

“We’re all better off,” he muttered again. “Right, Roach?”

Roach huffed, turning her head to stare at Geralt.

“Don’t give me that look,” Geralt chided, doing a quick, but thorough job coating his silver sword. When he’d finished, he tossed the cloth back into his pack, then moved to pat the side of Roach’s head. “Be back soon.”

Roach shook her head, turning away from him. Actively ignoring him, now.

Geralt sighed quietly before heading back to the garden. Even his _horse_ was mad at him. Best not to think about it. Best plan would be to focus and find the fiend. He could focus better, now, with Jaskier gone.

Or at least, it was what he reassured himself as he headed into the woods.

* * *

It didn’t take long to locate the fiend’s lair—a grassy clearing, sheltered by an overhang from the cliff up above. The beast itself wasn’t there, probably patrolling the rest of its territory, or hunting its next meal. Geralt could see remnants of the fiend’s previous victims, though all the skeletons appeared to be animals, not human. The remains of several wolves lay strewn about, bones picked clean.

Geralt walked beneath the overhang, out of the heat of the day. Autumn seemed to have not quite figured out that Winter was fast approaching. Soon enough he’d have to make his way back north, to Kaer Morhen. To his brothers, waiting to share stories of their own adventures on the Path.

Maybe he could skip mentioning the dragon hunt.

Geralt huffed another sharp sigh, impatient with how his mind still seemed to latch onto the events. Yennefer was gone, no thanks to Borch. He’d likely never see her again. And Jaskier…

...Fuck’s sake, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from circling right back to the bard again.

He was on a hunt. He needed to _focus_. Prepare his potions for easy access, keep his sword at the ready, listen for the fiend’s footsteps through the forest—

A deep, rumbling growl interrupted his thoughts.

Geralt turned toward the noise, silver sword at the ready. Through the gaps in the trees he spotted the fiend, a full grown, lumbering thing, with a pale skinned face and massive, branching antlers. Where it wasn’t covered by thick patches of brown fur, Geralt could see its body was covered in claw marks. Scars, from disputes over territory or desperate prey. The witch was right—the creature looked old. Old and battle-hardened.

Geralt quickly downed a dose of Thunderbolt, the potion instantly sending pulses of energy along his nerves. Quicker reaction time and heavier blows were going to be key if he wanted to end this battle swiftly. “C’mon, bastard,” he growled under his breath. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” As Geralt stepped into a ready stance, the fiend took notice of the witcher in its space, fixing him with all three of its eyes.

Immediately, it let out a roar.

The fiend charged into the clearing, swiping down at Geralt with an arm as thick as a tree trunk. Geralt’s sword clashed with its claws, but only briefly, the witcher’s enhanced strength hardly helping as the fiend bashed Geralt to the side.

He flew across the clearing, landing heavily. Geralt grunted, scrambling to sit up, finding his sword was thankfully still in hand. As he looked up, he spotted the fiend staring back at him, eye in the center of its forehead glowing a bright, eerie red.

“Shit,” Geralt muttered, recognizing in an instant that if he didn’t move fast, the thing was going to stun him with magic. He formed the sign for Igni, and flames erupted from his fingertips.

The fiend roared, though it quickly became clear it was more out of fury than pain from the flames. Even as fire licked across its fur, the fiend charged again, great horns lowered to impale the witcher.

Geralt leapt out of the way, rolling and reorienting himself to slash at the fiend’s hind leg. Silver met skin, the fiend howling as Geralt continued his assault with sharp, heavy strikes. The fiend was big, and bulky—too slow to dodge. But then it tensed, and Geralt’s gaze snapped up to meet the fiend’s.

Its third eye glowed brighter, encompassing Geralt’s vision until everything around him went dark.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hissed again. The world narrowed to a pinprick—the only visible light Geralt could see was that same, discomfiting red of the fiend’s eye. It wavered in his vision, moving back and forth, entrancing. Geralt steeled himself, lowering his stance, relying on instinct to keep his sword up and on the defensive.

The eye marked where the fiend’s head was. He might not be completely fucked, if he could just figure out where its limbs were. He took a chance as something large moved in front of him, striking out with his sword, only to hit empty air.

Claws slashed across Geralt’s torso, tearing gashes in his armor.

Geralt fell backward, the back of his head slamming painfully against the ground as the fiend pinned him by his chest. He blinked against the darkness, unable to clear the illusion. Only able to see that damned red eye, watching him. It grew bigger, closer, as the fiend leaned down. He could feel and smell its hot, pungent breath on his face. Geralt’s slowed heart was pounding, adrenaline surging as the beast growled.

His sword arm still blessedly free, Geralt jabbed his blade upward, stabbing it into the meat of the fiend’s forearm.

The fiend howled in pain, arm flinching back but taking the embedded sword and Geralt with it.

Dangling in the air, still tightly gripping the hilt of his weapon, Geralt sought out the small blur of red. He lifted his arm, aiming a stronger blast of Igni at the fiend’s eye.

In an instant, both the glow and the darkness vanished from Geralt’s vision. The fiend swung its arm roughly, throwing the witcher off.

Geralt scrambled to get on his feet again as his eyes readjusted, his head throbbing. His chest burned from where the fiend had slashed him, but the wound didn’t feel too deep. Swallow would carry him for now. He nearly inhaled the healing potion, wondering if maybe he’d been too cocky, since his foe was hardly phased.

The fiend looked mildly singed, but otherwise no worse for wear as it pawed at the ground, Geralt’s sword still stuck in its arm. Flames danced about its feet, catching on the dry, dead grass.

“Fuck’s sake,” Geralt breathed, searching for some sort of weakspot. Fiends were strong, sure, but not like _this_. He hadn’t expected the blasted thing to be able to take multiple shots of Igni to its face and keep charging. The beast didn’t even seem to register that it had silver embedded in its arm.

The fiend charged again with a bellow, flinching only slightly as it barreled forward.

Geralt dove to the side, hearing a thunderous _crack_ as the fiend snapped the trunk of a tree. Inwardly, Geralt found himself grateful he’d driven Jaskier away. Idiot always stood at the treeline for fights like this, and said treeline was getting quickly smashed or set ablaze. Geralt could hardly look out for _himself_ at the moment, let alone the bard.

The briefest flicker of movement at the opposing treeline caught the edges of Geralt’s vision. A shadowed figure.

Someone at the edge of the burning trees.

Someone watching the fight.

A heavy feeling of dread washed over Geralt.

No. _No,_ Jaskier wouldn’t have followed him. Not after that. It had been months, he couldn’t be here, not now, not when Geralt couldn’t protect—

Before he could think to call out, the fiend took another swipe at the witcher, this time grabbing hold of his leg. It yanked him forward, off his feet. From there it proceeded to heft Geralt into the air, slamming him back into the ground.

Geralt cried out in pain, his arm taking the brunt of the damage, bent at a bad angle and burning with agony. Then he was in the air again, crashing down a second later. This time he heard the snap. Knew his arm was broken. The grip on his leg loosened, and Geralt grit his teeth as he tried to push through the ache. Tried to focus. He needed to retrieve his sword. Distract the monster, somehow, keep it away from the trees. Yell at Jaskier to get the hell away from here.

The fiend lowered its head, almost curiously sniffing him, as if wondering whether the witcher were still alive.

Geralt lifted his good arm, aiming Aard right at its gaping maw.

The blast of magic rammed the fiend’s head backward, strong enough to break off several branches of the tree above. The fiend reoriented itself and then shook its head violently. It bellowed at the witcher in a fury.

Geralt rolled, narrowly avoiding getting grabbed again, and then scampered further away. He got his feet under him, broken arm hanging awkwardly at his side.

The fiend bellowed again, enraged he had the audacity to keep moving. Then, one of the blasted branches fell, directly on the beast’s head. The fiend staggered, head hung low, taken off guard.

Seizing his chance, Geralt darted forward, drawing his sword from the monster’s arm. He ignored the fiend’s shriek of pain, focused wholly on reorienting his blade. He thrust the silver forward, directly into one of the fiend’s eyes, and buried the blade to its hilt.

The fiend’s cry cut short. It spasmed, third eye in the middle of its head rolling. Then the beast was falling, collapsing heavily onto the ground.

Dead.

Geralt panted, bracing himself in case the fiend was only subdued. He listened for its heartbeat and, on hearing none, allowed himself to step closer. As he did, he looked to the edge of the clearing, where a few trees were still crackling. Not enough for the flames to truly catch, but enough to have been pretty well singed.

There was no figure beyond the trees, waiting.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt growled out, eyes narrowing, the back of his head aching. “I know you’re there. Come out.” The fiend was finally dead. If anything, Geralt expected Jaskier to come bounding out of the shelter of the unburnt trees, throwing out some awkward excuses as to why he’d followed Geralt all the way out here. After all, no one else was crazy enough to come after him.

The woods around him were quiet.

Geralt grimaced, hoping it meant Jaskier had the sense to run back to Roach. Maybe retrieve Geralt’s pack. Much as he hated the thought that Jaskier would insist on traveling together again, Geralt had to admit, inwardly, that it would be much simpler to set his broken arm with Jaskier’s help.

For now, Geralt retrieved and sheathed his sword. Beheading the fiend with one usable arm was difficult, but not impossible, especially not with Thunderbolt still pulsing through his body. His knife cut through easily enough, and soon Geralt was dragging the beast’s head by its antlers, making his way back to the witch’s hut.

“Jaskier,” he called out, in case the bard was still near enough to hear.

There was the snap of a branch underfoot, ahead of him. Then more silence.

Geralt grumbled to himself as he walked. Surely Jaskier knew he was injured, having watched the fight. It was a fight Jaskier would have loved, too—A dead fiend in a fiery forest, the flames blending into the streaks of dying sun in the sky. Poetic. Or, something. Good fodder for songs, even as Geralt dragged his injured body back to relative safety.

The bard would know Geralt was in no mood to play games. Definitely not in the mood to chase Jaskier all the way back to Roach, when the bard could be making himself useful, for once. Helping with the trophy from the fiend, for instance, or at least telling Geralt he was fetching another potion that wouldn’t tip Geralt into dangerous levels of toxicity.

Hell, he would take Jaskier’s chatter as a distraction, even, just to distance himself from the burning in his arm and the throbbing headache.

A bush rustled somewhere to his left.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt called again, ignoring that the irritation in his voice was slipping closer to petulance.

Again, his call was met with silence.

The bard was planning something, Geralt figured. Some stupid, big, dramatic entrance. Or he was sulking, still mad at Geralt for the words the witcher had flung at Jaskier back on the mountain.

But, he couldn’t still be mad about that, could he? It had been months. He was here. Bastard had followed Geralt, yet again, just as he always did.

He must have been fine then. Dramatics. That’s all it was.

The next branch snapping underfoot was further away, veering off-course if the bard were trying to make it back to the hut. “You’re going the wrong way,” Geralt chastised loudly. When he still received no answer, Geralt rolled his eyes, readjusting his hold on the fiend’s antlers. “Don’t blame me if you get fucking lost, bard.”

Getting lost wasn’t much of a threat, Geralt knew, considering how close they were to the hut. Still, he kept an ear out for the sound of walking, the bard’s steps oddly too quiet to hear properly. Not quite as heavy or rambunctious as his usual tromping through the woods, no matter how many times Geralt tried to teach him how to navigate the wild without drawing attention to himself.

When Geralt made it out of the woods and caught sight of the witch’s back garden, he expected to see Jaskeir there, pouting and impatient.

Instead, he found himself staring down a doe.

The doe had come from exactly where Geralt had been listening to Jaskier—or, what he’d assumed must have been Jaskier. She was a graceful-looking creature, though wary of him, big eyes fixed on Geralt’s form as he stilled.

Geralt thought back to the figure in the trees. It had been a shadow. Moved too quick to tell exactly who, or what, it was.

Jaskier didn’t cry out when Geralt was slammed into the ground.

Jaskier didn’t come to his aid when the fiend was dead, to flit about and fuss over Geralt’s wounds.

Jaskier, who could never shut up, even if his life depended on it, didn’t respond to a single one of Geralt’s calls.

The witcher stared at the deer, lips parting in confusion, head muddled by pain.

Jaskier wasn’t here.

It was a doe he’d been yelling at. A doe he’d confused for a bard. A doe he’d listened for, thinking it was his—hoping—

Jaskier was probably nowhere _near_ this hut. These woods. That fight.

Geralt heard a sharp _crack_ , and the doe bolted, running away and out of sight. Confused and alarmed, Geralt looked around for the source of the noise, only for the fiend’s head to drop from his hold. The remains of where Geralt had been gripping its antlers were still in his palm, snapped to pieces under the force of his fingers.

The dead fiend’s intact eye was locked with Geralt’s, vacant.

Geralt wondered, for a brief moment, what the fuck he was doing.

Of course Jaskier wasn’t here. It was better he wasn’t here. Jaskier would be safer, not being on the Path. He wouldn’t be in the way. He wouldn’t need looking after. He wouldn’t look after Geralt—

Distract. He wouldn’t _distract_ Geralt.

Yet, distracted was all Geralt felt, as he grabbed the fiend’s head again by its fur, actively ignoring the bitterness seeping into his bones at seeing the doe, and not Jaskier. He walked to the witch’s hut, firmly not thinking about how Jaskier could have been waiting here, to chastise and comfort in equal measure. He kicked the door with his foot in lieu of knocking, not thinking about how Jaskier would have insisted they bandage his arm by now, how Jaskier would have knocked for him, how Jaskier would—

The door opened on its own, and Geralt walked inside, still distracted even as he unceremoniously dropped the fiend’s bloody head on the witch’s floor.

“It’s about time. Don’t you look awful,” the witch smiled, fixing him with a look that reminded him too much of Yennefer—Too piercing, too knowing, like she was looking into his very core of his being. “I’ve thought things over while you were away—Quite kind of you to only insist I leave, instead of immediately lopping my head off like the alderman surely told you to. Such kindness should be rewarded.”

“Just leave,” Geralt growled. “Leave, and don’t come back here.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose I must,” the witch sighed, put-upon, but then she smiled at him again, expression bright and curious. “You’re quite the strange one, White Wolf. There’s a sense of heroics around you—”

_Heroics, and heartbreak!_

“—just like in the songs.”

Geralt grit his teeth at her smug expression, the same way Jaskier would look at him when the bard knew he was about to get Geralt to do exactly as he wished.

“I’m inclined to give you a freebie,” the witch noted pleasantly. “Is there something _you_ want, witcher?”

Geralt wanted all these distractions to _stop_.

He wanted to have never fucking _met_ Jaskier, or Yennefer. No dragon hunt, no djinn, no child surprise—None of it. He wanted to never have had them influence his life, and vice versa. At least then, he could stick to the Path, stick to his _duty_ , as he was _meant_ to do, instead of shouting at random deer in the woods, thinking they were obnoxious, distracting, bastard _bards_.

Geralt opened his mouth to deny her favor, when the witch cut him off with a wave of her hand.

Beneath his feet, a circle of blue light ignited on the floor. Geralt jerked, attempting to step back only to find himself bound to the floorboards.

“So, witchers do have wants, after all,” she noted, amused, the sharp and knowing look back in clever eyes. “A great many, in fact.”

Geralt’s stomach dropped as the magic whirred around him, as the realization hit him heavier than the fiend’s blows.

She hadn’t waited for his answer, merely plucked it straight from his mind.

“I think I know of a satisfactory solution to all your wants,” the witch smiled serenely, quite satisfied with herself. She raised her arms, magic swirling in arcs across her fingertips. “Enjoy your favor, Geralt of Rivia.”

“ _Wait—!_ ” Geralt shouted, but the noise was drowned out by the portal ripping open beneath his feet.

Then, he fell.

* * *

Instead of the typical harrowing experience of moving through space, Geralt felt _thrown_. There was no mildly rough landing to be had this time.

No, instead, Geralt hit the other side like a _battering ram_.

There was a brief moment of clarity, where Geralt saw a slew of trees ahead of him, and had enough presence of mind to note that he didn’t feel his usual portal-induced nausea. He was standing, somehow, but he felt hollow. Weak. Even more disoriented than usual.

The moment he realized the ache of his body, he fell to his knees, throwing his arm out to catch himself.

His arm _burned_ with the strain, collapsing instantly, and Geralt found he didn’t have the strength to cry out.

Geralt lay there, unable to move, unsure of where he was, the arm pinned beneath him in so much pain it was _blinding._

Vision blurring at the edges, he wondered wildly what might have happened if Jaskier had been with him, at the witch’s hut.

Then, everything went dark.


	2. On Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finally wakes after his painful portal trip, and predictably doesn't feel so good. Less predictably, there's another witcher here, claiming to be a friend of Lambert's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg I'm so happy to finally be making progress on fics again alskdjflsjf Anyway, hope you enjoy the update!! I know the summary's a bit vague but I can promise Witcher!Jask is gonna show up in ch.3. Geralt's just got a lot of confusion to work through before they run into each other. Also I'm biased and love Aiden, so I had to throw him in somehow lol

The first thing Geralt noticed when he woke up was the dull throbbing sensation in his arm. He tried to move it, and the pain flared, lighting up through the whole appendage down to his fingertips.

Right. The fiend. The fight. The doe.

The witch.

Damned _portals._

Geralt tried to force his eyes open instead.

He found himself laying on his stomach, in the dirt, his head turned sharply to the side. Everything felt a little hazy. Geralt blinked hard, once, in an effort to get the shapes in front of his face to come into proper focus.

There was a campfire crackling a few feet away. Trees. Forest. It was dark—Nighttime.

He was at camp, but on the ground, not his bed roll. Usually a trip through a portal made him nauseous. This time had been worse, somehow. His arm ached. The whole of him felt hollow, except his head. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

Where the fuck was the witch?

Geralt tried his good arm, maneuvering it under him and pushing himself up a bit with a soft grunt.

“Oh, good, you’re still alive.”

Geralt looked up, scowling. The voice didn’t belong to the witch—it was a man. A man dressed in a dark leather jerkin, staring at Geralt from his seat on a large, fallen log. Next to him were two swords, sheathed, though Geralt was willing to bet one of the blades was silver. The man’s yellow eyes regarded Geralt cooly, but there was a spark of mischief in his smile.

Another witcher.

Geralt grimaced, wondering where the man had come from. He wasn’t one of the Wolves, and Geralt couldn’t quite make out the shape of his medallion.

“You seem a little more aware now,” the other witcher noted, leaning forward on his knees, silver medallion hanging down, gleaming in the firelight.

The emblem was the perfect likeness of an angry, snarling cat.

“Lambert would’ve been upset if I’d told him I’d happened upon your dead body,” the witcher continued.

Geralt only stared back at him, brain slowly trying to piece his current situation together.

He’d been at the witch’s hut. She’d done him some “favor,” without him voicing what he wanted. Now he appeared to be in the woods, at camp, with a witcher from the school of the Cat, whom he’d never seen in his life. One who knew Lambert, his brother.

Since when did Lambert hang out with Cats? Vesemir would kill him.

“Who are you?” Geralt managed, throat feeling like he’d swallowed a pint of gravel.

The other witcher grinned cordially. “Name’s Aiden,” he introduced. “Lambert’s my...Well, he hasn’t quite come around to labeling our relationship. We’ll say he’s...a friend.”

“Never mentioned you.”

Aiden appeared unsurprised. If anything, he looked amused as he smoothed back his curly locks. “He wouldn’t. He’s too embarrassed,” he chuckled. “The only Wolf in Kaer Morhen with an emotional attachment outside his pack, and it’s to a _Cat_.” With a maudlin sigh, Aiden placed his hand over his heart. “The _scandal_ of it.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed at Aiden’s antics, waiting for further explanation.

“So, the white-haired Wolf—You’re Geralt, right?” Aiden inquired instead, canting his head to the side. “What happened to _you?_ I wasn’t sure if you’d last the night or not.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed in confusion, and then he remembered he was still lying on the ground, prone, with a suspicious witcher not ten feet away. Hastily, he moved to get up, at least seated. His muscles strained in protest, weak and shaky, just to get himself marginally upright on his knees.

Aiden only watched patiently, curious eyes never leaving Geralt for a second.

Once steady, Geralt thought better of jumping to his feet. Instead, he fixed Aiden with a glare. “Where are we?” he asked, wondering just how far the witch’s portal threw him.

“Bit south of Novigrad,” Aiden answered easily. “We aren’t far outside the city limits, actually.”

That was not at all near the witch’s hut.

Geralt grunted, annoyed. Maybe he could figure out what the witch had meant by a _favor_ if he went to the city. Though, the mere thought of standing sent another wave of dizziness through him. He might have to take his chances here, rather than try to make it to Novigrad in the middle of the night.

“Lambert wasn’t kidding,” Aiden remarked, smirking as his tone took on a more sarcastic note. “You’re a stellar conversationalist.”

The sentiment certainly sounded like something Lambert would say. Aiden might know him after all. Geralt hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much he could confide in the other witcher. Lambert trusting Aiden spoke wonders, but Lambert had his own track record of bad decision-making, same as Geralt. It was a crapshoot.

“Am I going to get an answer out of you, or should I just be grateful you’re responding at all?” Aiden asked, clearly teasing if his smile was any indication.

“Contract,” Geralt said by way of explanation. “Witch dropped me through a portal. Now I’m here.”

“Take it you didn’t intend to come here,” Aiden surmised.

“Said it was a favor,” Geralt elaborated sourly, rolling his shoulder. Instantly his arm lit up in pain again, and he flinched. Oddly, though, the shift of his back didn’t carry the same weight of his own two swords. Geralt reached back with his good arm, finding the hilt of his silver, but not the steel. “Fuck.”

“Something the matter?” Aiden asked.

“Lost a sword,” Geralt groused. He might’ve lost it in the portal. Or dropped it upon exit. He looked around the meager camp, not seeing any other blades nearby.

“Your armor isn’t in great shape, either,” Aiden pointed out, nodding to Geralt. “Actually, as a whole—not great. When did you last eat?”

Geralt grunted distractedly. Morning was the answer, probably, though he didn’t feel like he’d eaten that recently. In fact, the dizziness he’d ascribed to portal travel was quickly returning, and he began to wonder how long he’d been out. Still hurt. Hungry. Lost.

Shit, and Roach was nowhere nearby, either.

“Geralt,” Aiden said softly, catching the other’s attention. He held out some hardtack that he’d procured when Geralt hadn’t been looking, and a small pouch. “Here.”

After a moment of suspicious hesitation, Geralt took the food, finding the pouch to be full of dried fruit and nuts. He took a small bite of the hardtack, expressing his gratitude with a quiet hum.

“You really are _exactly_ as Lambert described you,” Aiden smiled, even as he shook his head.

“How’s that?” Geralt asked, eating slowly.

Aiden merely chuckled, leaning back to rest his hands on the fallen log. “You mentioned the witch sent you here as some sort of favor—Anything I could help with?”

“Why would you?” Geralt countered, eyes narrowing even as he ate gifted food.

“Mostly for your brother’s sake, though I’ll admit to having some personal curiosity about you,” Aiden explained.

“Doubt Lambert would give a shit,” Geralt sniped.

“He cares more than he lets on, as I’m sure you’re well aware,” Aiden elaborated, smile growing fond. “From what he’s told me of the rest of you, the Wolves all seem to share that quality.”

Geralt glowered at the other witcher. Aiden’s smile remained, almost smug at Geralt’s increasing disdain. “...Thanks,” Geralt muttered sullenly, “for the food.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

It was seeming more likely that Aiden meant him no harm, or that the Cat had devised some other use for having Geralt around. Cats were tricky, Geralt knew. Sly and secretive, used to spywork and shadier contracts than the Wolves tended to take on. Not to mention their differing mutations—enhanced emotions, rather than subdued. They were unpredictable. Volatile.

On second thought, maybe Geralt _could_ understand how Lambert could befriend a Cat. Lambert was a firebrand. Aiden might relate to him better than Geralt or Eskel could.

“You seem...tired,” Aiden observed, his tone one that Geralt recognized from Jaskier’s attempts at gently ushering a prickly witcher into cooperating. “If you like, we could call it a night and head for the city in the morning—There’s sure to be a contract or two available, not to mention a blacksmith who could replace your sword.”

It was a sound plan, and Geralt couldn’t see much reason to argue. He _was_ tired, and, as Aiden had so helpfully pointed out, not in great shape. His purse had been light before he went to see the witch. He’d need to heal up, and get supplies. Need to get his bearings.

Need to figure out what, exactly, the witch’s “favor” was.

He nodded to Aiden, begrudgingly accepting a blanket from the other witcher. Once settled on the ground again, in a more comfortable position this time, Geralt felt his eyes quickly drifting shut. He felt more tired than he should, even factoring in the fight with the fiend. Drained, really, in a way that seeped into every fiber of him.

Geralt knew he should try to stay up. Try to keep an eye on Aiden. Try to figure out what the witch had decided on. Yet his thoughts slipped away from him nearly as soon as he grabbed hold of them. Something to do with Yennefer. Something about his fuck ups with destiny.

Something about Jaskier.

Oblivion took him then, and Geralt fell into comforting darkness with frightful ease.

* * *

Geralt woke to a booted foot nudging his shoulder.

“Geralt? Still with me?”

With a groan, Geralt cracked one eye open, scowling up at Aiden. The Cat didn’t look particularly concerned, though his lips quirked up at the sight of Geralt waking.

“Ah, good. Come on,” Aiden urged, dropping a parcel of food by Geralt’s head, followed by a waterskin. “Have some breakfast. Then we can head into the city.”

Geralt moved slowly, feeling sluggish and hardly rested. As he began to eat, he foggily recalled the events of the day before, his thoughts like molasses.

Novigrad next, he repeated to himself. Novigrad, to figure out what the witch had done for him.

Aside from making his head hurt, anyway.

It was as Geralt was drinking the last of the water that he noticed his arm, though it was still flaring up with pain at certain motions, was no longer broken. Which was odd. Baffling, even. It shouldn’t have healed nearly that fast, even with Swallow in his system. And yet, he could move it. Sort of. Regardless, his arm had definitely healed _wrong_ , bent awkwardly and protesting painfully every time he tried to examine it.

Geralt soon gave up trying to fiddle with his armor to get a good look at the break. He was having too much trouble moving. Too much trouble _thinking_. He elected to watch Aiden breaking camp, instead, studying the other witcher’s fluid, practiced movements. Geralt could already see the Cat carried himself differently, oddly graceful even as he checked that the remains of the campfire were completely out.

Noticing Geralt’s gaze, Aiden smiled up at him. “Finished?” he asked, nodding at the remains of the food.

“...Yeah,” Geralt answered, tearing his eyes away to pack up the parcel. He soon found a hand at his eye-level—Aiden reaching down, to help him up.

“Should get a move on, then.”

Geralt glanced from the offered hand to Aiden’s calm expression, still wary and unsure if he could truly trust the Cat. Signs were pointing to yes, so far, but if Vesemir had taught him anything, it was that a Cat could turn on a moment’s notice. “...You really helping me just for Lambert?” Geralt inquired.

“He would be the primary reason,” Aiden grinned.

Geralt grimaced, but relented, taking the assistance and standing on annoyingly _shaky_ legs. He grumbled to himself as Aiden helped to steady him, snatching his own hand back the second he was balanced.

“Come on then, Wolf,” Aiden said, his back to Geralt as he began to walk away. “We should hit the city proper by mid-morning.”

Geralt took a moment to look around the clearing, briefly hoping to spot his missing sword now that the sun had risen. Or better, Roach.

Nothing. Any belongings he might have kept through the portal were on his person.

 _Some favor_ , he thought bitterly, trailing after Aiden.

* * *

Aiden, blessedly, didn’t seem to care that Geralt had no desire for conversation on their way to Novigrad. The Cat would eye him occasionally, as though making sure Geralt was still following, but wasn’t pressing any questions beyond a quiet “Alright?” when Geralt lagged behind.

Geralt hummed in response, and Aiden would smirk a little, only to return his eyes to the road.

It gave Geralt time to actually think. The witch’s favor was plucked straight from his head—he was sure of that much. The issue now was that he couldn’t recall exactly what he’d wanted at the time. It was a flurry of frustration. Something about being annoyed at the deer he’d stumbled across. At how the witch was pestering him.

The answer came to Geralt as soon as he stepped foot on the bridge leading into the city.

_Jaskier._

Jaskier was who he’d been thinking of. Which meant the favor had something to do with the bard.

Geralt let out an aggravated growl at the realization, glowering at the city gates before him.

Aiden looked to him instantly, surprised. “Something wrong?”

“Just remembered. Need to find a bard,” Geralt told Aiden. Whatever the witch determined his wish to be, it would have affected Jaskier, too. Considering the portal brought Geralt right to the outskirts of Novigrad, Jaskier was likely playing somewhere in the city. And was now roped into whatever magical malarkey the witch had thought fitting.

Geralt grumbled to himself, inwardly. He’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath of the mountain just yet. There was no way Jaskier would receive him kindly if he showed up unannounced.

“You...require musical talent?” Aiden scoffed with a smirk, pulling the Wolf back out of his musings.

“No. Specific bard,” Geralt clarified. “Goes by Jaskier.”

Aiden looked thoughtful for a moment, ultimately frowning. “Can’t say I’ve heard of them.”

It was Geralt’s turn to frown, slowing in his steps. “He wrote _Toss a Coin_. Couldn’t miss his clothes, either—Flamboyant and obnoxious.”

“Flamboyant and obnoxious describes most bards, I would wager,” Aiden chuckled. “I don’t think I’ve heard _Toss a Coin_ —how does it go?”

Geralt hesitated, confused as he regarded the other witcher. He opened his mouth to describe the song more—He wouldn’t _sing_ the damn thing, but he could recite the lyrics—when he found himself facing down the point of a spear. Geralt’s gaze moved down the shaft, meeting the suspicious glare of a city guard.

“Hold,” the guard ordered. “You—You’re Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt sighed quietly through his nose, recognizing the look on the man’s face. Anger. Fear. Most peoples’ reaction when they figured out what Geralt was, though this guard seemed to have it out for him specifically.

Aiden’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise as he addressed the guard. “Is there a problem? We’re only looking for work.”

“This one’ll find no work here!” the guard spat, glower still locked on Geralt.

“Ah,” Aiden clicked his tongue knowingly. “I get it. You’ve nothing to fear, good man. I can vouch for Geralt.” He held a hand to his chest, smiling amiably. “I promise you we’ll carry out whatever contracts the city has available, and be on our way soon enough.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you?” the guard questioned, finally moving his attention to Aiden. “You’re a witcher too, aren’t you?”

“Indeed, though from a different school,” Aiden explained easily, tapping his Cat medallion. “No loyalties among _my_ kind, as I’m sure you’ve heard.” He gestured almost lazily to Geralt, grin never leaving his face for a second. “I’ll gut him if he tries to start anything.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched in irritation as he watched Aiden. It was concerning to him, how easily this other witcher could lie. His concern increased significantly when Aiden turned to Geralt, seemingly nonplussed, but with a tightness to his muscles that Geralt knew meant Aiden could spring into action whenever he wanted. It could just be another mark of being a witcher. Normal, for them.

It could also mean Aiden _wasn’t_ lying.

The guard, at least, took the comment as truth, relaxing marginally and withdrawing his weapon. “...Fine,” he grunted reluctantly, eyeing Aiden with a sharp look. “Don’t think you won’t be watched, though.”

“I would never,” Aiden assured the main amiably, and then began walking into the city. “Come on, Geralt.”

After one last exchange of glowers with the guard, Geralt followed. He’d had his fair share of run-ins with leery guards before, but something about the way the man’s eyes continued to watch the pair of them felt off. Familiar, and not in a way Geralt liked.

“Oh, get that scowl off your face; you’re not helping yourself,” Aiden chuckled, grabbing the hood of Geralt’s cloak and tossing it up over the Wolf’s head. “Surely you’re used to that sort of treatment.”

Geralt only hummed, irritably adjusting his hood with his good hand.

“Don’t worry,” Aiden grinned. “We’ll find some work, and your bard.”

“He isn’t _my—”_ Geralt began, only for Aiden to ignore him, giving Geralt a condescending pat on the shoulder before beelining for a nearby noticeboard.


	3. Skulking in Sewers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Aiden do a bit of exploring of Novigrad, and run into a distressingly familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience!! I can confirm I have the notes for the whole plot done, so it's mostly just a matter of finding the time/focus to sit down and write this fic. :D

He trailed after Aiden, who was walking purposefully through the city, smoothly weaving through the crowd to find the nearest notice board.

When they reached it, it was clear there wasn’t much work to be had—Most of the scrawled notes were regarding local, personal dramatics. One piece of parchment looked vaguely official, with a wax seal pressed at the bottom.

“Ah, here we are,” Aiden noted, scanning through the notice. “Missing persons reported around the sewers. Captain of the guard should have more information.” He ripped the parchment off the board, turning to Geralt. “You want to split the reward? If it’s in the sewers it’s likely something easy to handle. Drowners or some such.”

Geralt’s lip twitched into a frown. “Wouldn’t be much reward.”

“No, but coin is coin, and you look like you could use some,” Aiden shrugged. “So?”

Coin was always a high priority—and maybe even more so now that Geralt was missing a sword—but Geralt couldn’t help but feel he should at least seek some word of Jaskier. If the witch had somehow dragged the bard into Geralt’s wish, Geralt needed to prepare to see him again.

How Geralt would prepare for meeting Jaskier after the shitstorm that was the dragon hunt, he wasn’t sure, but at the very least Geralt could find out if the bard was even in town.

“Gotta look around some,” Geralt told Aiden.

Aiden appeared unsurprised by the refusal. “Sure, do your thing. I’ll be grabbing a room at the Nowhere Inn, if you change your mind.”

As Aiden turned to leave, Geralt opted to muse about the odd Cat later. While the help was appreciated, Geralt could find his own contracts. He headed toward Hierarch Square, knowing enough people passed through it that he’d be able to find a busker who knew of Jaskier, at least. Surely someone had heard tale of what the “humble” bard was up to.

Confirming the witch hadn’t cursed Jaskier was all Geralt needed to do, really. Confirm the bard was still alive and well. The lack of new songs since the dragon hunt nibbled at the back of his brain, like a weak, persistent leech.

Geralt shook his head minutely as he walked, catching his thoughts growing more circular by the minute. The portal must have really knocked him for a loop.

 _Focus_ , he told himself. He just had to _focus._

* * *

While Geralt did manage to focus on finding information about Jaskier, his actual efforts turned up nothing. Less than nothing, even, if the terrified flutist before him were an indication.

“You’re sure?” Geralt pressed, growing all the more frustrated as he interrogated the flutist.

“I swear, sir witcher,” the man insisted, voice wobbly as he was pinned by Geralt’s cat-slit gaze. “I’ve never heard of any ‘Jaskier.’”

Geralt hummed a low note of displeasure. “He’s got dark hair, and blue eyes. Went to Oxenfurt,” he tried. “Sings loud, dresses louder. Never shuts up.”

“I attended Oxenfurt myself, years ago,” the flutist provided nervously. “I can assure you, I do not know him.”

The man had to be lying—Jaskier was extraordinarily well-connected at Oxenfurt. _Toss a Coin_ had made the bard even more infamous than the trysts he’d left behind in his travels. And yet, Geralt couldn’t spot any signs of lies in the flutist’s testimony, nor smell anything but intense, sour fear at being stuck in the presence of a witcher.

It was possible this man genuinely didn’t know Jaskier. Somehow.

Begrudgingly, Geralt let the flutist be on his way. There were plenty of other troubadours in Novigrad. Flyers for various performers were scattered all throughout this very square.

In fact, Geralt should have checked those first. Jaskier himself loved to perform in the city, the place all abuzz with noise and people. The bard could have a performance lined up, and then Geralt wouldn’t have to talk to anyone else.

The first flyer he spotted was by the blacksmith, advertising a dancing troupe. The next, a fire swallower. The third was a finely detailed rendering of a lutist, but not the one Geralt was looking for.

Geralt grimaced at the name ‘ _Valdo Marx_ ’ on the flyer, struck with the wild urge to find one of Jaskier’s and cover his rival’s, as Jaskier had on a joint visit to the city.

_“You’re doing the face again,” Jaskier scolded Geralt, even as he fiddled with the nail securing Valdo’s flyer. “The judgey one. You’ll get an even deeper line on your forehead than you’ve already got.”_

_“Not making a face,” Geralt shot back, yet still self-consciously attempted to relax his forehead while Jaskier’s back was turned. “Not defacing another musician’s flyer, either.”_

_Jaskier laughed, loudly. “Valdo Marx can hardly be called a musician, Geralt. If anything, this flyer is the very definition of false advertising. Now hand me the one for my performance tonight; The citizens of Novigrad will be grateful to gaze upon my likeness over this—this ostentatious, uninspired, unremarkable—”_

_“He can’t be ostentatious and unremarkable at the same time,” Geralt argued. “That doesn’t make sense.”_

_“And yet,” Jaskier held up a finger as he declared, “he manages to be both, and altogether talentless. It’s almost a talent of its own. Now,” he grinned broadly, holding out his hand and making a grabbing motion._

_Geralt shook his head lightly, knowing better by now than to argue anymore, passing Jaskier his own advertisement._

_Jaskier plucked the parchment from Geralt’s grip, turning to secure his flyer over Valdo’s._

_“Why not just take his?” Geralt asked._

_“Steal another person’s promotional material? In this economy?” Jaskier scoffed, a hand coming to his chest in shock. “Geralt, you wound me, thinking I could possibly be so petty.”_

_Geralt looked pointedly to where Jaskier’s flyer now fully covered Valdo’s. “This isn’t petty?”_

_“No! This is merely a perfectly normal form of competition—Not that I should have to compete much with Valdo, of all people, but—” Jaskier looked at the flyers, hands on his hips. His eyes narrowed in thought for a brief second, nose scrunching disdainfully. “Well. Perhaps it’s a smidge petty.” Despite the admission, Jaskier brightened instantly, clasping his hands together. “Now, my fractious friend, I believe I owe you a drink—”_

_“Not your friend,” Geralt shot back, even as his lips twitched into a smirk._

_Jaskier huffed frustratedly. “Right, yeah,” he scoffed. “My not-friend who was very helpful today and to whom I still owe some ale.” With a pat of Geralt’s shoulder, Jaskier walked past him, leading the way out of the square. “Come along, witcher!”_

“—witcher?”

Geralt startled, brought back to awareness by the blacksmith glowering at him.

“So, you’re not deaf,” the blacksmith observed. “You’d better move along—You’re scaring away my customers.”

Narrowing his eyes, Geralt cast one last glance at the different flyers. Jaskier was advertised on none of them. With a grunt, he departed, walking back into the main square.

The interaction unsettled him. Sure, the blacksmith was as human as any other, with plenty to bias him against witchers, but Geralt’s coin was usually still considered worth the worry. Witchers needed weapons. Blacksmiths needed coin. And in a city like Novigrad, still free and at least _tolerant_ , Geralt expected a little less blatant dismissal.

He wouldn’t be able to replace his sword there, he supposed.

As he walked past other shops, other humans, Geralt felt the back of his neck prickling from all the staring.

Now that he’d noticed it, he couldn’t stop. There were more people watching him. More anxious whispers. Geralt sniffed, focusing.

_Fear._

Geralt passed a group of women, two of whom nearly stumbled in their haste to grant him a wider berth. Guards manning their post glowered when he met their eyes.

Since when had Novigrad been so wary of witchers? And why hadn’t he noticed sooner?

Something was off.

“ _Mutant,_ ” someone hissed behind him.

Geralt set his jaw, ignoring the slight, as usual. He set off toward the Nowhere Inn. If the city itself had become antagonistic to witchers, it wasn’t just Geralt who needed to worry, either. He needed to find Aiden.

* * *

Aiden wasn’t at the Inn, but the innkeeper was at least willing to tell Geralt where the other witcher had headed off to. Still willing to do business with them, it seemed. A small mercy, if the city was growing more hostile.

Geralt made his way south, toward the docks. He crossed the westernmost bridge, avoiding the locals as he approached a large, ramshackle building on the edge of the water. A woman stood outside it, casting lingering, seductive gazes on the passersby. A prostitute, from the look of her.

“Come in for a spell, why don’t you?” she crooned to a burly shipman. “Spent so long at sea, you’re sure to want a—” she cut herself off as Geralt came into view, pursing her lips. “What the…? _Another_ witcher?”

“Take it you’ve seen the man I’m looking for,” Geralt said in lieu of answering. He nodded his head to the building behind her. “This Crippled Kate’s?”

“It is, though I’m guessing you’re not here to blow off steam from all that monster-killing,” the woman crossed her arms, eyes studying Geralt critically. “I reckon you’ve no coin to spend for it, anyway. Wiry thing, aren’t you?”

Geralt gestured to the door of the brothel. “I need to talk to that other witcher.”

“Right,” she sighed, put upon as she stepped aside to give Geralt access. “Go on, then. He’s still at the bar, I expect.”

With a nod, Geralt entered the building. He spotted Aiden immediately, the Cat sipping a pint of ale just where the prostitute said he’d be.

Aiden’s eyes were drawn to the girl putting on a show atop a table in the center of the room, but Geralt’s movement caught his attention. He held up a hand in greeting as Geralt approached. “You find your bard?”

“No,” Geralt grunted.

“Oh.” Aiden shifted slightly in his relaxed lean, head tilted curiously. “Change your mind about the drowners, then?”

“Also no.” Geralt glanced briefly around at the clientele. None of the other patrons of Crippled Kate’s seemed to take notice of the pair, too engrossed by the girls hoarding their attentions and coin purses. Still, Geralt dropped his voice, confident Aiden would still be able to hear. “This city seem a little...more alert, than usual?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Aiden answered casually. “Did something happen?”

“Not specifically. People seem on edge.”

At that, Aiden smirked. “You mean, more so than their usual paranoia of witchers in their midst?”

“Yeah,” Geralt confirmed, glad Aiden was catching his drift. “At least, more than the last time I was in Novigrad. The guards, in particular.”

Aiden’s expression sobered some. “...When _was_ the last time you were here?”

It took Geralt a bit to remember. Probably sometime before he replaced his last sword. The one he’d now lost. “Six months, maybe.”

Aiden seemed to hesitate then, only to ultimately shrug. “Novigrad’s the same as I’ve seen everywhere else. It’s not like witchers in general have a good reputation—I figured you of all people would be used to it by now.”

Geralt scowled, growing frustrated. Jaskier’s songs, even if they were obnoxious, did plenty of good at changing the public’s opinion on witchers as a whole. Not to mention the moniker of White Wolf getting forever intertwined with Geralt himself. He didn’t think he’d grown so used to the better treatment the songs brought.

“Ah, good,” Aiden said, draining his ale and proceeding to straighten up. He nodded toward the stairs across the room. “Contact’s finally finished up with her client.”

“Contact?” Geralt questioned, turning to see a young woman with braided blonde hair descending the stairs.

The woman was as scantily clad as the rest of the whores, fixing the top of her bodice before she caught Aiden’s eyes on her. She appeared to recognize him, though shot Geralt a nervous glance as she walked toward the pair of witchers. “Thanks for waiting,” she told Aiden.

“Certainly,” Aiden smiled. “This is Geralt,” he introduced, gesturing gently. “He’s helping.”

Before Geralt had time to even cast a questioning glare at the Cat, the woman laughed nervously. “Geralt...of Rivia?”

“The captain said you saw the soldiers get attacked?” Aiden prompted, ignoring her query.

“Yeah...” the woman trailed off, still staring at Geralt. At his curious look in return, she snapped back to Aiden. “I was outside attracting patrons. There were some soldiers hanging about the sewer entrance, all suspicious-like.” She crossed her arms as she recalled the tale, as if the memory of it brought on a chill. “One of ‘em said they saw something move. Said it was likely drowners or some such.”

Geralt frowned, inwardly resigning himself to helping with the contract, after all. Not like he’d found any word of Jaskier. Might as well do something useful. “You say that like it _wasn’t_.”

“This weren’t no drowner,” she protested weakly. “Those soldiers went inside and I heard a _gods-awful_ amount of screaming. One tried to run out—I caught a glimpse of him just before,” she clapped one hand over the other with a loud _smack_ , “The thing _grabbed_ him. Pulled him right back in. And I heard skittering on the stones—had to be something big.”

“Take it the soldiers didn’t come back out,” Aiden noted.

“No. Wouldn’t expect them to, after that racket,” she grimaced. “They’re dead. I told the captain as much.”

“Thanks for the help,” Aiden told her. “We’ll go investigate the sewers; there’s probably a clue about our beastie where the soldiers got snatched.”

“I’m sure, but...I’ve got to ask,” she started, pursing her lips. “Why’s there so many witchers about?”

Aiden and Geralt shared a glance. Aiden smiled, amused. “I suppose two does count as a lot.”

“No, there was another one,” the woman corrected him. “He had a cat medallion, like you. I don’t know if he took this job, though.”

Aiden stiffened, but his smile at the whore remained. “Interesting tidbit. I’ll be on the lookout for him, then.” He turned back to Geralt, gesturing toward the door. “Shall we?”

Geralt found himself being gently, but forcefully ushered out of the establishment. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“Going to have to move quick if there’s another Cat on the contract,” Aiden explained, his eyes searching the lower level of the walkway.

“Why not just find a different contract?” Geralt asked, flummoxed, looking down with him. Below them was access to the river, with paths that connected to the sewers themselves. “Or you could team up with him. If he’s already got it—”

“We don’t share things well,” Aiden laughed, though still visibly on edge as he strode quickly for a set of stairs that would lead them to a sewer entrance. “Unlike you Wolves, there’s not much camaraderie among my school. C’mon.”

Geralt stood at the top of the stairs as Aiden went to investigate the large, circular entryway. “I never said I was joining you.”

Aiden looked up at him, his expression unimpressed in a way that actually did remind him somewhat of Lambert. “Do you want to make any coin or not?”

He couldn’t quite find it within himself to argue against that point.

With an irritated huff, Geralt followed after Aiden. They moved into the sewers, through a door in the grating that Geralt felt should really be better secured. “We don’t even know what we’re up against,” he protested.

“Something big that lives in the sewers,” Aiden summed up idly, halting when he came to a splash of dark red on the stone walls. “And _not_ a drowner. Though, my contact didn’t see what happened, so it might be a drowned dead. Or at worst, a zeugl.”

“I’ve never seen a zeugl that could _skitter_ ,” Geralt pointed out, trudging up next to him. The stain on the stone was definitely blood. Arterial spray. Whatever had grabbed the guards must have killed them once caught, and dragged their bodies to its lair.

Aiden let out a laugh. “Fine, what do _you_ think it is? And how quickly do you think we can track it down?”

Geralt hummed, annoyed at the sudden pressure Aiden was putting on getting the contract completed. Skittering didn’t fit the description of most sewer-dwelling monsters he knew of—Something else could have moved in, finding the dark and dank a preferable hideaway in the busy city, even if the sewers were normally full of drowners.

“Think you could solve the riddle while we walk?” Aiden prompted, already continuing down the path to their right.

Geralt sighed, trailing after him. “Not much to go on,” he complained.

“As though you haven’t worked with less,” Aiden countered, rounding another corner. “Go on, if you’re so concerned with the skittering, tell me a monster that skitters.”

“Arachas,” Geralt answered automatically. “But we’re in a city, not a forest. Otherwise, an arachas could’ve used webbing to grab that last guard.”

Aiden snorted, only to still, squinting at a space ahead of them “That doesn’t look like part of the original infrastructure,” he noted, pointing toward an opening in the sewer wall. Rubble and debris lay scattered around it, the rock closest to the hole another streak of red.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed as they made their way closer. There were deep grooves in the stone. Claw marks, though far too big to be from the usual, local monsters, made when whatever the creature was dragged itself and its prey through.

“What is that?” Aiden questioned, stepping closer to the broken wall. He knelt, moving his hand through a shimmery substance stuck to the stone. “ _Ugh_ ,” he recoiled, shaking out his hand. “Gross. Sticky.”

Geralt perked up, leaning in for a closer look. The substance did somewhat resemble the remnants of webbing, but it was too deeply soaked with sludge and blood to fully tell. Still, likely enough to make a call. “...I take back what I said—This might really be an arachas.” Though, how in the world it had gotten from a forest into city sewers, Geralt was not remotely certain.

Aiden wiped his hand swiftly on his pants, grimacing. “If it’s a fucking _arachas_ , I’ll give you another 20 orens from what we earn,” he told Geralt.

“We should prepare,” Geralt argued. “What potions do you have on you?”

Aiden looked away, down the tunnel made by the broken wall, as though resigned to agree. But then, his eyes widened. “No time,” he growled out, standing and drawing his silver sword.

Geralt’s attention whipped in the same direction, drawing his own weapon. The tunnel was dark, but there was enough torchlight that he could see collapsed forms lying motionless in the water. As Aiden moved forward, Geralt was close behind. He retrieved a torch off the wall of the main tunnel, holding it aloft to get a better eye on the bodies before them. He flinched as he held the torch higher, pain lancing through injured arm. The appendage strained with the motion until he lowered it, the flames of the torch low at his side. Grumbling to himself, Geralt decided it would have to suffice, hurrying after Aiden. 

The bodies turned out to be drowners.

Blood seeped into the sewer water, stemming from deep gashes in the necrophages’ bodies. One was missing its head. The strikes were few, and purposeful—cut very clearly by some sort of blade, handled by someone who knew exactly how to outmaneuver the quick-moving monsters.

“Seems your friend’s been here already,” Geralt groused, stepping over a severed arm. “Looks like a witcher's work.”

“Likelihood of being a friend is low,” Aiden muttered through grit teeth. “Keep your guard up. With any luck, he hasn’t killed our quarry, yet.”

They made their way down the tunnel, around one more sharp turn, finding that their luck was apparently against them.

The tunnel hit a dead-end, but more importantly, a huge arachas, as Geralt had rightly guessed, lay slain in the middle of the room. Another witcher, clad in blue armor styled similarly to Aiden’s, was currently in the process of cutting into the beast with a small hunting knife. He extracted the valuable monster parts with easy, well-practiced motions.

Aiden finally relaxed, surprisingly, placing a hand on his hip and smirking at the sight. “Well, Geralt, it seems I owe you some orens after all,” he chuckled, no longer keeping his voice down.

Geralt grunted, glaring at the witcher that beat them to the punch. As the third witcher drew back from the corpse, rolling his shoulders, Geralt was struck with a sense of familiarity. Something about his frame, and the mop of brown hair curling over the tips of his ears.

Then the man turned, and Geralt felt his chest lurch at the sight.

Jaskier was looking back at him, with his typical easygoing grin plastered on his face, the same as ever. But, worryingly, his teeth were sharper. Skin paler. And his _eyes_ —Jaskier’s clear blue eyes, that always reminded Geralt of the sky over the sea, were instead a bright, unnatural _yellow_.

Yellow, with slit, catlike pupils, hardly dilated in the dim.

 _It can’t be,_ Geralt thought. _It can’t._

“ _Aiden,_ ” Jaskier drawled warmly, opening his arms as though he was about to perform a show. “Fancy seeing you here, in the depths of sludge and shit. And you’ve made another Wolf friend since I saw you last!”

Geralt stared helplessly, mind a whirl at Jaskier’s form, clothed in armor that was covered in blood. At the pair of swords strapped to his back. At the cat medallion, the same snarling, hissing profile as the rest of Aiden’s school.

“Been a while,” Aiden greeted amiably, his voice tinged with faint relief. “I almost thought you were dead. Should’ve known better.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt breathed, his voice weak.

Jaskier’s expression tightened, letting out a sour attempt at a laugh. “...Excuse me?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, mind still not grasping the situation but knowing— _knowing_ that voice could only belong to the bard. His hand clenched at the hilt of his sword, as if he could physically fight his way through the sudden wellspring of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. “You’re _Jaskier_.”

The grin faded from Jaskier’s face, his gaze going cold and suspicious. “Wrong wildflower, I’m afraid.”

“Geralt,” Aiden interjected, getting Geralt’s attention with a light touch to his shoulder. “This is Dandelion.”


End file.
